The Children of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “I love you, too.”

  Matrinka allowed the words a few moments to sink in before breaking the mood. “Ra-khir, I’d like to leave the three of you alone . . .”

  Guessing the reason for her reticence, Ra-khir reassured. “I can handle cleaning things up. Thank you for everything.”

  Matrinka did not worry for demeaning his appreciation. “It was truly nothing but my job.”

  Ra-khir smiled. “I thought your job was to rule Béarn.”

  Matrinka raised a finger in a marked gesture. “Not when I’m healing, remember. Then I’m just plain Matrinka.”

  Ra-khir did not mention how she had used her position and title to help keep the Pudarians at bay. He appreciated it too much to risk making her feel guilty. “Thank you, just plain Matrinka. Get some sleep.”

  “I will,” Matrinka promised, herding the elf and other Béarnide from the room. The door closed behind them, leaving a silence that admitted the baby’s quiet swallows.

  Kevral rose, and Ra-khir stripped and replaced the bloody sheets and spotted blanket. Once finished, he patted the bed, indicating Kevral should rest. By that time, the baby had lost interest in the breast. It lay in Kevral’s arms, tiny eyes unfocused, limbs flexed, fists tightly closed. Kevral remained standing, her stamina remarkable but not unexpected. She broke the hush. “I want another.”

  Ra-khir considered the words several moments, seeking logic in them. He looked at Kevral’s face, but her gaze did not move from the baby. “Another . . .?” he encouraged, but Kevral did not finish the thought. “Another . . . baby?”

  Kevral nodded, still not raising her head.

  Ra-khir placed an arm across his wife’s shoulders and guided her to a sitting position on the bed. He reached for the baby. “I don’t plan to go the rest of my life without coupling with my wife, so it’s likely there’ll be more.”

  Finally, Kevral gave him her attention, though she still clutched the baby. “I want to start as soon as possible. Two weeks. No longer.”

  Ra-khir cringed at the bare thought. He knew little of birthing, but he suspected the discomfort would last at least that long. “Kevral, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He sought words for his concern. “We can’t replace this child. Like all children, he’s unique, and he deserves an identity of his own. We need time to mourn, to deal with what happened. Saviar and Subikahn deserve our time and attention. And we need time for us, if we can find it.”

  Kevral relinquished the swaddled infant to her husband, removed her soiled nightshirt and used it to wipe clean her lower regions. The bulge in her abdomen had already shrunk, and he could not help noticing limbs and a torso honed by daily hours of sword practice. “I’m not trying to replace this baby.” She made a gesture at her chest of drawers.

  Ra-khir turned, cradling the baby in the crook of his left arm and opening the lowest drawer with his right.

  “And I agree that it would be better to wait.” Kevral sighed. “But if I cycle even once after this baby, I can’t have another.”

  Rummaging through the drawer for another nightshirt, Ra-khir frowned at the idea of Kevral pregnant for longer than two years. The risk of death increased exponentially with each subsequent pregnancy less than a year after the previous one had ended. “We’ve only got one shard left, and we’ve succeeded so far. We’ll restore fertility.” Finding a nightshirt, he drew it out and closed the drawer. “We don’t have to place your life in that kind of danger nor steal time from the twins . . .” Turning, he trailed off.

  Kevral sat on the bed, back supported by the headboard, her eyes large with sorrow and her mouth fiercely pinched. “Captain only said it might lift the sterility spell. If I don’t have another right away, I might never be able to.”

  Ra-khir passed Kevral the nightshirt. “You have two strong sons. That’s more than any other woman your age. You didn’t want this one.” He did not add that most of her fight for the baby had come from anger and pride, not desire for another child.

  Kevral donned the clothing, then reached for the baby. “Not at first. But now that he’s here, I want him more than almost anything.”

  Ra-khir found himself not wanting to let go. The baby’s warmth against him felt so comfortable, so right. If they had relinquished the baby because they could not care for it, he would still have suffered regret; but the joy of doing the best for the child would have diminished the pain. This loss left a void that he, too, wanted to fill—but not at the risk of Kevral’s health and life. “I want him, too,” he admitted, passing the bundle back to Kevral. He did not argue about creation of another child. High emotions, caused by childbirth and by the need to surrender the child, would not allow for rational discussion now. He had two weeks to convince her that the perils outweighed desire. It seemed ludicrous to insist on performing the last task while she still recovered from childbirth; yet it would likely prove less burdensome than another nine-month gestation. At least they would know whether or not the complete Pica, and the elves’ magic, could counter the plague. If logic and circumstance failed to convince, and Kevral still wanted another baby, he could not deny her. “My love, should we name him?”

  Kevral smiled. “Calistin,” she said.

  Ra-khir nodded, recognizing the name of Colbey’s father, reserved all these years by the Renshai for one deserving. They would have been willing to bestow it upon Tae’s son, so it only made sense that they would have granted it to a baby sired by Colbey’s own son. “Calistin,” he said. “Of course.”

  Kevral clutched the infant, savoring her only day with him. Ra-khir hovered close by, her strength, heroically hiding his own pain.

  CHAPTER 30

  The Fatal Mistake

  Skill has no limits, and anything will come with practice. If it does not, look to your own dedication and will.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  ASGARD seemed to scroll changelessly past Colbey, the sky a cloudless sapphire plain, the trees identical and evenly spaced, the grasses as steady and uniform a green as elfin eyes. Disoriented by a world that had served as his home for centuries, Colbey relied solely on pacing to bring him to the structure he sought, since landmarks failed him. Has chaos affected me this much? The thought raised buzzing alarm. If he had become so linked to his charge that the places of his past, those once familiar worlds of law, seemed utterly static, then chaos had gained a greater hold than he could bear. As he worried before taking on the responsibility of chaos, he might never manage to free himself from this burden he had grudgingly, but willingly, accepted. I have to find Odin and end this. Soon.

  Odin’s hall, Valaskjalf, appeared suddenly on the horizon, as if by magic. The break in the stable monotony eased Colbey’s soul, and relief wafted from the chaos sword as well. He hurried toward it, prepared for an abrupt and angry meeting with the one who ruled the citadel. Freya had sent him many places in search of the one he needed to confront, without success. Colbey had anticipated that a simple transport to the world of Odin’s rule would bring the gray father of gods to him in an instant. Yet, after longer than two months of intermittent searching, the confrontation still awaited. In the meantime, chaos gained strength, no longer requiring contact with his hand to communicate. Soon, he worried, it would break through his barriers and claim him, turning order into pain. His form would disappear, and he would flow into the primordial chaos like a vapor.

  No one challenged Colbey as he entered Odin’s hall and passed the many treasures of war that served as decoration in a place whose very name meant Shelf of the Slain. Now, as never before, the decor consisted only of pairs, trios, and quadruples set in perfect patterns. Colbey tried not to notice as he passed from room to kindred room, the scenery barely fluctuating. The sword focused in on tiny differences while he refused to study his surroundings, except to seek signs of life or movement among the displays. Odin’s possessions had never required such definitive patterns during the time of his death. Since his return, he had rearranged everything he owned, Colbey fe
lt certain, now realizing that the changes in Valaskjalf and Asgard came from Odin’s bond with law, not from his own with chaos.

  The thought intrigued Colbey. His ventures into Odin’s mind made him certain the AllFather did not believe himself influenced by law at all. Odin had placed his essence into what he had believed was an essentially empty staff and he, not law, had joined with Dh’arlo’mé. Circumstances showed otherwise. Law had quietly integrated Odin while he lay quiescent in the staff through centuries. As Odin regained his power, so did law; and chaos had grown in necessary opposition. He believes I have bonded with chaos, yet it is himself who has become hopelessly one with law.

  These thoughts brought Colbey to Hlidskjalf, the high seat from which Odin viewed the main worlds. When they lived, only Odin and his wife could sit upon that chair. After the High One’s death, Colbey had done so a few times and other gods also, including his son, Ravn. No one but Odin had dared since his return.

  Colbey approached the jeweled, stone seat in silence and discovered that someone occupied it now, blond braids flowing over the back. Colbey froze, hand creeping toward his hilt, heart pounding the calm cadence of war. From that position, Odin could see everything on nine worlds. Surely, Colbey’s presence did not surprise him. “Finally, I’ve found you.”

  The figure on Hlidskjalf jumped, skittering to his feet. It was Frey. “I just—” He broke off at the sight of Colbey, then finished in a less defensive voice. “I just got here.”

  Colbey approached, uncertain which side Frey served. Two months could change much, especially those touched by Odin. “I’m sorry. I thought you were Odin.”

  Frey’s brows rose in surprise.

  “Because you’re here,” Colbey explained. “No other reason.” He changed the subject, “Whom were you seeking?”

  “You,” Frey admitted freely. “And Odin.”

  “You haven’t seen him?”

  “Not since we spoke.” Frey conversed freely. If Odin did not sit upon Hlidskjalf, he could not overhear them. “But this is the first time I’ve dared to come here. I believe he’s out looking for you.”

  “I’ve hardly made myself scarce.” Colbey walked around Frey to perch upon Odin’s great chair. The view allowed him to study nine worlds, including the three destroyed by Surtr’s fire at the Ragnarok: Alfheim, Jötunheim, and Vanaheim. He scanned painstakingly, pausing once to look at the infant in Kevral’s arms with satisfaction. “A boy.”

  “What?” Frey ran his fingers over the rainbow of gemstones set into the arm of the chair.

  “Over the past two months, I’ve divided my time between Asgard and chaos’ world, with a few stops in Midgard in the hope I might find Odin there. I thought surely he’d come after me each time I transported onto his world.” Colbey made a vast gesture, turning his attention to some of the lesser worlds that had never concerned him in the past. To his surprise, he found life on two tiny worlds that were previously unoccupied. He honed in, searching for Odin and finding only unfamiliar creatures not quite human. “What’s happening on Nídavellír and Svartalfheim?”

  “My doing,” Frey admitted quietly. “Those elves who wished to return to the old ways have Svartalfheim, which I now call Nualfheim. Those once-elves who chose bitterness and Odin now dwell on Nídavellír, the dwarves for whom we prepared that place. The rest live among the humans on Midgard.”

  “Ah.” Colbey did not need the details. The spreading and division of elves did not concern him.

  Frey also seemed glad to let the matter of his creations rest. “I still believe he’s seeking you, just in the wrong places at the wrong times. When you’re on chaos’ world, of course, he can’t see you. That’s not one of the places Hlidskjalf shows.”

  Having gazed over all of the worlds he could, including the lands of the dead, Colbey sat back. “Where would he go that I can’t find him?”

  Frey shook his head. “He might be searching some of the smaller worlds. The created ones. In case you might be hiding out on one of those.”

  *He’s on chaos’ world,* the sword supplied suddenly and with alarm.

  Colbey sat bolt upright. *How do you know?*

  *I’m grounded there. There’s a disturbance . . . *

  *Take me back. To where Freya and Ravn are.* Terror closed over Colbey’s heart.

  *Why there?*

  Colbey’s fingers clenched the hilt. *It’s the only place there he can go.*

  * * *

  Gray clouds shrouded Béarn’s sun, turning the late spring afternoon cold. Wind tangled the curtains of the window in the queen’s chambers, smelling damp. Tae leaned against the cushioned arm of a couch across from Matrinka in a matching, upholstered chair. Subikahn toddled across the floor, falling whenever the paneling gave way to carpeting. In a flash, he pulled himself to a stand again, marching up to a half dozen steps before landing on his bottom again. Soft black hair fell crookedly to his ears, and eyes as dark as his father’s showed a hint of mischief. Tae wondered how much of the soft roundness of his face came from Kevral and how much from age. He hoped his Eastern blood would never coarsen those gentle and handsome features.

  Sitting at Matrinka’s feet, Marisole laughed whenever Subikahn fell. Though three months behind him in age, she already outweighed him, rolls of fat hiding her joints and making her arms and legs look short. Bright brown eyes followed his every movement, and a smile stretched her tiny lips more often than not. Around her, no adult could help grinning and cooing like an idiot. Her dress flared around chubby thighs, and a bow held up her single tuft of dark hair. Flopped upside down on the couch, Mior batted Tae’s hand.

  Yes, I know you’re there. Tae caught the paw, pinching it lightly between his second and third fingers before letting it slide free. He tickled under the calico’s chin.

  *Prove it.* The words glided into Tae’s mind, his best guess at Mior’s reply.

  “I expected to find you with Kevral and Ra-khir.” Clearly oblivious, Matrinka informed. “The baby was born early this morning. Figured you’d climb the castle for a sight of him, too.”

  Tae had overheard guards in the hallway and already knew the news. Though angry with himself, not Matrinka, he could not keep an edge from his voice. “I don’t want to see him. And I don’t want to see my friends . . .” The word came hard, and he swallowed it until he could speak without crying. “. . . sad.” Absently, he fingered the ruby he now wore on a chain around his neck.

  “You’re upset about Rascal’s death,” Matrinka guessed, her tone sympathetic, understanding.

  “Yes.” Tae needed no such reason to visit his friend, yet he would not lie. Recognizing the action that clued the queen, he released the gemstone he and Rascal had discovered in the demon’s horde. He had promised it to the Pudarian after completion of the mission. “I can’t help feeling responsible.” He gathered Mior into his lap, running his hands in circles over her belly. “And that I could have done more. I could still do more.”

  *That’s better. * Mior purred, grabbing playfully for Tae’s moving hands.

  Tae’s face jerked down to the animal, and he wondered if grief had driven him insane. “Are you talking to me?”

  “I—I didn’t say anything,” Matrinka stammered. She turned Tae a curious look that contained guilt as well as sorrow. “I was still thinking.”

  Mior rolled, tumbling from lap to floor. Though she landed on her feet, she stumbled. Sitting, she licked at a foot with an air of disdain. *I did that on purpose.*

  Tae shook his head, scarcely daring to believe. He tried thinking at the cat. *Can you understand me?*

  *Not usually,* Mior returned, though a shocked joy trickled past the nonchalant answer. The lack of surprise at his ability to communicate with her was as feigned as her claim to have deliberately fallen. *You rarely make sense.*

  Not quite ready to reveal his new talent, Tae returned the attention Matrinka more than deserved. “I’m sorry.” He sought the dense and shameful grief that had brought him to Matrinka’s room
, shallowly buried beneath amazement. He caught one hand slipping toward the ruby again. “If I had worked a bit harder, tried better tactics, I might have prepared her . . .”

  “No.” Matrinka leaned forward. “Tae, you did as much as anyone could. Rascal lost herself long ago.”

  *You can search forever in an empty well, but you will never find diamonds.*

  Mior’s profundity complimented Matrinka’s words. Tae lowered his head. “I was an empty well, too. And you never gave up on me.”

  Matrinka considered those words, obviously not privy to Mior’s comment. The cat had clearly directed it to him. “You were never empty, Tae. We didn’t do anything special to bring you to our side. Your own inherent morality did that for us.”

  “You didn’t know me before.”

  “I didn’t have to.” Matrinka steadied Marisole, then approached Tae. Mior leaped into her lap. “Tae, think back. We didn’t do anything for you, only for the mission and for ourselves. You changed yourself for yourself. Rascal had neither the will nor the strength to save herself. You couldn’t do that for her.” She clasped his hands. “Ultimately, Tae, no one ever can.”

  *Listen to her. She knows what she’s saying.*

  Tae wondered if the calico was giving an equal amount of commentary on his words to Matrinka and gained a new respect for the queen of Béarn. He envied how she managed to keep the thread of human conversations with a second one occurring in her head. “Weren’t you the one who claimed every person has good in them? Didn’t you tell me to keep trying, that I’d break through to her eventually?”

  Matrinka’s hands tightened around his, and Mior wound between the circle of her arms. “A mistake?” It was a question, not a statement. “I wanted you to strive for the impossible, and I wanted Rascal to have every possible chance.” She released Tae. “I believe you gave her that.”